4-6

 

4 GHOSTS I

 

A

tticus strolled through the city, smoking his cigarette and contemplating Captain Kangaroo, a little swagger in his step. He felt like hell, but was glad to be alive, and with a moment of reflection, the old adage came to his mind – this was the first day of the rest of his life. He tossed the cigarette into the gutter and lit another, all while smiling. It was a pretty day, and looking over his shoulder, to his past, he saw the memory of Claudia and smiled.

‘Go home, go to sleep.’

She had said, but he had to disagree.

No, he thought he may clean himself up and go out for the day, relish in the sun and the birds, perhaps go down to the river bend and just relax, or to the beach down the way. The only thing he had set in stone was that he did not want to be confined to his house, and he probably wanted to be near the cleanliness of water. Atticus coughed his cigarette down, and entered the rickety door of the apartment building. He nodded to the old man behind the security booth, who looked at his filthy clothes with curiosity and disgust. Atticus continued to smile as he crossed the lobby to the elevator, and ascended, listening to the gears as they turned and the suspension as it rattled and squeaked.

The double doors clattered open, the sound of metal on metal, and Atticus stepped out into the hall, and down toward his apartment. The pattern of the carpet was intricate down the hall, stretching and pulling aside, but it was all worn through in spots, the thatch of the underside visible and disrupting the delicate art in the canvas. Atticus left his eyes to linger on a worried hole, and stood at his door for a long moment, his head cocked and curious. It was frayed, and more worn than any other spot, he could see the slats of wood beneath it, and he began to wonder how and why it would only be worn in spots, not in paths, but as he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, he shook the notion from his mind and stepped inside.

Time has come and gone, and stretching out in the tub with a book and another cigarette, Atticus smiled and puffed away, letting his body to soak away the filth of the evening’s events while humming to himself. The bubbles in the water popped and burst, thinning like a balding man, exposing his body to the light, and for the first time, he noticed a great black mark scratched upon his leg. Atticus had not felt it, nor did he now, but he stared at it, and lifted his leg from the water, to examine the black swathe.

As he touched it he flinched, and bent his heel to his chest to get a closer look, a contortionist’s pose, and he used the other knee, drawn up and out of the water, as a catch to rest his foot upon. Atticus prodded and pulled it apart, it looked like necrotic or cauterised muscle, flesh, and he stood from the water, rinsing his body clear under the shower head. His arm had another spot he had originally thought to be grime, as well as his stomach. His grey flesh glistened, clean, but they remained. They were not superficial, they were wounds and stepping from the bath, he looked in the closet for peroxide and bandages.

A harrumph of confusion and curiosity escaped his throat as he wrapped his leg and arm, and did his best with his torso. The wounds did not hurt, and as he shaved, then dressed in a sleek black suit, he put them from his mind and regained his smile. Returning to the door leading to the hall, he gave the apartment a glance to see that everything was still off, and slipped an unlit cigarette between his lips.

The door opened, silent as a ghost, and he stepped into the hall. His eyes fell to the threadbare patch of carpet once more, and he harrumphed once more as he padded down to the elevator. The down button shown bright and amber, and Atticus could hear the lift rumbling its way to his floor from above or below. To the beach, or perhaps the river, he thought, as he crossed the threshold and pushed the button for the lobby.

The lift clattered down with a ping, and the doors slid open once more. Atticus stepped out and brushed imaginary dust off his chest as he looked about the lobby. The only person there was the geriatric security guard, eyeing Atticus suspiciously, but a little more approving now that he was not caked and covered with mud and what may or may not have been human waste.  As he left the building, Atticus flipped a gold coin to the man and practically skipped through the revolving door.

He wasn’t sure, himself, what cast such a bounce in his step. Being alive, yes, but there was something else that had lifted the weight from his back, and it dawned on him in a brief moment of clarity. The parcel was gone, no longer his concern, and with a dry smirk, he lit the cigarette that dangled from between his lips, and strolled, literally strolled, down the empty sidewalk toward the heart of the city – he had decided to venture to the park, then perhaps the river. There was no schedule, nor any concern. Today was his day.

 

Each step she took carried Claudia further from the centre, and pausing beneath an overpass, she stood in the aqueduct and held the parcel in her palm, watching it catch the light. It glinted and shown, bright, blinding, and as she bit her lip, she pressed the release and slowly opened it. She gasped and smiled, and closed it quickly. For a moment, she had lost her composure, and felt like a child at Christmas. She returned it to her pocket, and looked down at herself, the blacks flaking to dark brown as they dried. Disgusted by her appearance, she tried to brush them away to only smear them along the fine white silk and her pallid hand.

“Damn.”

She said, stepping out from under the shadows and into the sunlight of the aqueduct, making the way straight for home.

The small flat on the lower east side was decorated in a modern style, all sleek and glass, and had the shades been open, it would have gleamed. The furnishings were sparse, a single couch with a glass coffee table in front of it, where rested a single book, while many others lined shelves spanning the sitting room, meticulously aligned, so was the state of the entire flat.

Claudia closed the door behind her and dropped the small stack of envelopes on the coffee table and undressed as she made a beeline for the shower.     

It was hot and it filled the small bathroom with steam, from floor to ceiling, and slightly fogged and obscured the skylight. The sunlight refracted down onto her, turning the stream from the shower into falling diamonds, and with the lights off, the hazy glow gave the room an eerie sheen. It rolled with the fog, and gave it mass as it peered through the skylight. The heat from the showerhead had turned her barely pink flesh a deep red, but her nerves barely registered the water hot enough to boil lobster.

Claudia stood with her hands flat against the cool tile and her hair hanging in a thick ribbon down her chest, streaming water down her body. It followed every subtle curve and nuance and turned her feet an even darker burgundy than her back before it spiralled down the drain to the sewers below; her scent clinging to every hydrogen atom.

The taps screamed as she closed them, and she made a mental note to call Maintenance the next day to oil them, or do whatever it was that they did. As she stepped over the tub and to the floor, she fetched the plush white towel hanging over the rod and wrapped it around her waist as she stood before the mirror, fogged beyond visibility and streaked with dripping condensation. She wiped it clear with her palm and stared at the marbled reflection. It seemed to mock her, showing the broken insides she refused to expose.

What she saw in the mirror, she could not explain or describe to anyone, they wouldn’t understand. It was all her fears, her insecurities, the weaknesses she hid behind lock and key, behind her façade. This was her most vulnerable moment, and she’d never let anyone see it in a hundred years – anytime she looked in the mirror, she saw the same thing, and that was the reason there was but one mirror in the house. She blinked and bit her lip. Turning away from the mirror and opening the door into the hallway, she moved to her bedroom and towel dried her hair, eyes fixed on the cut glass on her nightstand, casting a prism atop the sleek white table.

She draped the towel over the chair of her vanity and collapsed onto the bed; finding the silver parcel hidden in the sheets and holding it to her chest. It was frigid against her burning flesh, and turning to her side, she stared out to the sun resting betwixt the buildings. A jagged, razorblade horizon bleeding the colour of fire; the mirrored glass set in the steel frames, a million eyes reflecting the city around them.

The blaze of the metropolis lulled her to sleep, to dream, the cold silver held close to her chest.

 

5 GHOSTS i

 

T

he world was dark, and she could not feel her self, only a mounting pressure that was coming down and all around her. Claudia opened her eyes and saw nothing but the darkness, but the rest of her senses were alive. She could smell the sour stench of decay, the clay scent of an earthen tomb, and hear something burrowing deep in the underground – the scratching of small claws; talons made to tear flesh, to tunnel through the earth. Her heart clapped like thunder, thrashing a heavy tattoo against her ribcage, and she could hear the blood rushing to her ears. The terror burned like battery acid through her veins, she wondered if they’d melt away and leave her dead long before whatever creature that was making its way toward her would arrive.

The scratching had stopped, and she could hear the tinkle of the claws against stone. Whatever this ferreting beast was, it had reached a blockade, but deep in the pit of her stomach, she felt that it would not be slowed for long. The only other thing she knew was that she was on her back, that her feet were not on solid ground – if she were to try and escape, she had no clue in which direction to travel, which would be the shortest means. She bit her lip and tried to slow her breaths, she would be running out of oxygen soon, and as she closed her eyes, she heard the picking resume. Its course had changed somewhat, minimal, but the burrower had found a soft spot, and decided it had the time to go slightly off course.

Claudia could not feel anything, anymore. Her body was numb and starbursts were beginning to explode behind her eyelids. Shades of red and violet, and colours Crayola had never dreamed of, with a bright and piercing light at the centre. The light at the end of the tunnel, and taking a deep breath, she felt the release of the pressure on her chest – the world she knew had come undone.

“All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.”

She said, shifting to her back with a dry and humourless laugh.

“Died of rabies.”

 

The sun is a star, nothing more and nothing less. It is expansive in the human consciousness, but in the realm of stars, it’s not so big. And stars are burning balls of gas, not five or six or nine pointed designs. Stars are heat and fire, and burning, not too unlike hell, but nonetheless, the sun is not special, it is just a daytime star, and time does not exist, t’is merely a construct of measurement created by Man, to add stress and worry to daily living.

Atticus chortled as he thought to himself, and readjusted on a grey iron park bench that lined the jogging path.

Cross-legged with his coat flared out around him; he watched and mused on the pedestrians, creating imaginary goals in life for them, wondering where they were heading in such a hurry, or if their running was merely a way of spinning their wheels. Atticus was quite amused at their meandering, at the motivations he could only guess at. Some, he assumed were running for fitness, unaware or unconcerned that it was breaking away the cartilage in their knees. Others, he suspected of trolling, perhaps looking for a victim or an unsuspected glance at their knickers, or just desperately seeking a mate – these were questionable, and all the more amusing. He could see them, in his minds eye, as they sat at home in front of the computer, perusing the internet for celebrity up-skirt photos, with their dicks in their hands. It amused him, and as he continued to smoke like a California forest fire, he turned his head and observed the picnicking couples and families.

Any time he did this, he felt a bit like an alien scientist, examining the human species from space.

The male of the species sits behind the female and drapes his arms over her shoulders, praying for a grope of her breast, while certain veins in his body grow engorged and rigid.

Atticus laughed again and knocked the ash from his cigarette, paying more attention to the family on a blue and yellow checked blanket, a pair of large picnic baskets, and three unruly b*****d children. He suspected the man may have fathered one, but no more than. Atticus smiled and closed the neglected book that sat upon his lap to focus on them.

The man, Atticus called John; the woman, Jane, and the children: Things One, Two, and Three; and in his mind, created their story. John was soft around the middle, of good size and weight with a brutal face, and a nose that had been broken at least twice – he was a high school footballer gone to seed, who married his cheerleader sweetheart, the frumpy and worrisome Jane. He barked at the children, Things One, Two, and Three, holding his contempt against their throats. John suspected Jane of infidelity, and probably had his own suspicions about the paternity of the children.

Atticus imagined him the type to sit in front of the television, drinking beer and watching NASCAR re-runs, venturing outside only to yell at the children to come inside, ‘Get in here – Right Now!’, and perhaps throwing a shot into his wife after they’d done their homework and gone to bed, maybe, but looking at his dark and beady eyes, following his pubescent daughter around, Atticus began to wonder if he preferred younger fare. No, those eyes were not lusting, they were scrutinizing her fair hair, with his and his wife’s dark as midnight, and the seed was planted that maybe he did not have one child to call his own.

At least it would not be incestuous.

Atticus thought, as he continued to weave their tale.

Jane was full around the waist and her breasts sagged, heavy and pendulous – Atticus thought of her atop her husband, the bored expression in her eyes going unnoticed, and a razor sharp blade hanging from the n*****s that pointed to the floor, swinging back and forth, growing closer to the mans body.

Died of rabies.

He saw the man dumping his daemon seed into his wife and rolling over to sleep; the fur on his back glistening with sweat from overexertion. Jane laid in their bed, unfulfilled, until his snores filled the room and she ventured out to the computer.

Oh the troubles one could venture to online.

Then, Atticus imagined this night, with a pained, wry smile.

John, after putting the children to sleep, would crawl inside his wife as usual, and roll over, pretending to sleep. Once she left the bedroom, he would dress and go out to the living room where she’d be in a chat room, live on webcam, in a sweaty state of undress, breathing heavy and panting for all the desperate men watching. His fist would make contact, and the whole world could watch as he beat his wife to death, a cheap plastic vibrator still inside her.

It was a sad tale, and it would only get worse, but Atticus shook it from his mind and moved his eyes back to the bumbling, groping boy and his date. He was trying to be suave, and the first name that popped into Atticus’s head for this character was: Don Juan DiDorko, but decided on simply, Donnie, while his girl was – Alice. The boy ineptly fumbled with her jeans and sent her to a fit of giggles. This tale made Atticus smile, he saw them going home, or to a hotel, and Donnie prematurely ejaculating all over the girls pallid thighs. It was a laugh, and stubbing his cigarette out on the bench, Atticus rose up and strolled down to the creek.

The creek was peaceful, a public sanctuary, and leaning against a tree, he lit another cigarette, realising he could not taste them, that he had singed his taste buds.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

He thought, as his mind wandered back to the family, and the teenage couple.

 

The dark, cavernous underground of The Grotto fell deep into the earth, the ceiling hundreds of feet above the earthen floor. The expanse was marvellous, and as Teiidae and Boidae wandered amongst the villages and spires, and the great columns that kept the surface world from falling down upon them, they conversed about the news and goings-on of The Grotto. Boidae nodded and shifted the nonexistent wait of Jackdaw from one shoulder to the other once more as he learned that not much had happened in the interim of his appearances. Languidly, Boidae moved between the people, through the Mecca of the Grotto, and stopped for a moment at a small bodega, admiring the fruit.

“How much?”

He grumbled to the small man behind the cart as he examined a small red fruit.

“Two bits.”

The old man said, and Teiidae handed him a pair of small copper coins.

Together, they walked while Boidae enjoyed the fruit that barely filled the palm of his massive hand.

“It’s been a long time,

Since I’ve had a Minour.”

He spoke, sucking the sticky juice from his lips, tightening his grip on the legs of his compatriot, in his black shroud.

“Yes, Ctenomys makes a trip to the surface every so often to find them.”

Teiidae said.

“What? That’s Ctenomys?”

Boidae asked, turning to look at the small man, who was eyeing him curiously, not paying attention to the small child pocketing a succulent fruit. His solid black eyes stared and his fine grey hair rustled in the slow breeze, and before the boy could abscond with his plunder, a small, strong hand shot from the robes and gripped the boy by the shoulder. The long, tough nails dig into the supple flesh and drew a drop of blood soaking through the shirt. In the dim light from the torches, he saw the intricate black tattoo on the top of Ctenomys’s hand that triggered the memory of Boidae’s own attempt to pilfer fruit from the old man. Boidae winced and clutched his arm where the car still shown in the light, deep set and white.

Ctenomys turned from Boidae to confront the boy, and Boidae hastened to catch up with Teiidae.

“I thought he would be dead by now.”

“No, the codger will outlive us all, I believe. He’s been selling here as long as I can remember, and Boidae, I’m much older than ye’.”

“That you are, Teiidae. That you are.

Do you have any idea where The Magus should be?”

“In the centre.”

Teiidae spoke, pointing to the high structure, monolithic and made of stone. Shadows flickered down the heavy walls from the torches mounted in brackets at the top and regular intervals downward. Boidae gazed upon the building and remembered it well, where the Hierarchy resided and worked, they were the ones who had sent him and Jackdaw to the Outer Rim, to guard their sanctuary from the Surfacers. They had another year in the Outer Rim before they could return to The Grotto, and now his companion, his Master was dead. The inner workings of his mind wanted to blame The Hierarchy, but knew better – they were not the ones who slew Jackdaw. They had lived in the Outer Rim for nigh twelve years without incident – it was the Surfacer he blamed, and it was the Surfacer who would place.

 

 

6 GHOSTS I

 

S

uns rise and fall, and as Claudia shifted in her bed and slowly emerged from the ether of sleep; she noticed the sun had fallen behind the horizon in her stead. She pushed the covers from her body and found the parcel beneath her pillow, somewhat smudged with fingerprints. With a huffing sigh, she polished it on the pillowcase and looked out the window, opening to the city that glinted all around her, sprawling out like a blanket of diamonds. The building lights, the headlamps of the cars puttering away on the street below, they all glistened and burned bright in the darkness. Nowhere in the city was it truly dark.

She stood upon the bed and surveyed the spires and the intricate rivers of cars. From the apartment below her, she could hear the ghosts of music filtering through the floor, and as she stepped from the bed in one fluid motion, she approached the window and continued to gaze, transfixed. With her forehead against the glass, she watched the nearest streets, lined with pedestrians and the noise of cars rumbling down the thoroughfare, oblivious to anything around them and only concerned with their destination. In a way it amused her, but becoming aware of her exposed body, she returned to the bed and fetched her robe from the foot of it, wrapping its soft material around her body.

Claudia turned from the bed, from the room and ventured off to the expanse of the front room, lying upon the couch. She removed the pack and lighter from the glass table and lit her first cigarette upon waking and tried to recall the dream. First came the unsettled feeling in her gut, the feel of panic and of terror, and it still hung there, as she remembered. The robe fell open, and she felt the crushing weight of the earthen tomb and the scratching resounded in her ear. So real, and so there, that she looked around her pristine apartment as her heart pounded in her chest, a jackhammer of muscle and blood.

The apartment echoed with silence, a hollow existence, and captivity. The glistening and gleaming surfaces caught the dim light of the apartment and reflected in bright sunspots, like the lights from the city below.  

“I need to get the hell out of here.”

She said, running her fingers through her hair and stubbing her cigarette out in the glass ashtray.

In the shower, she looked up to the dark sky and the pin pricks of light burning from an incomprehensible distance – a thousand galaxies framed by the cream plaster of her terrestrial ceiling. Beyond the creamy spiral of the Milky Way, beyond the planet Pluto, and she began to ponder the math and wonder how ever could anyone on this planet doubt the existence of extra-terrestrial life forms. It was a mathematical impossibility, and as she rinsed the lavender shampoo from her long blonde hair, her eyes remained fixed on the sky and the infinite possibilities hidden in the darkness…

The darkness.

 

Still, in the darkness, Atticus sat on the river bend, an empty pack of cigarettes on the ground betwixt his feet, another one half gone, and a cigarette burning down between his fingers. He could no longer process taste or sensation; all he could manage was smoking and thought. The collection of butts was growing to a mountain between his feet, stubbed and stamped out in the black soil. Some were pinched off between his fingers and tossed into the river, while others simply burned out between his fingers, and if he went off and thought about it, it would have disturbed him to accept that he had smoked more in the past thirteen hours than he had in his entire life. He would feel it in the morning, but that was then, and this was now, all he wanted to do was sit in this lethargic state and smoke. And think. To try and unravel the mysteries of the universe, and the people he noticed. There had been a couple wandering down on the other side of the river, he had liked them, but now, he could not remember the concocted story – all he could remember was the stars, burning bright and infinite above him, and how little he actually knew about the universe around him. In the end, it was a very terrible thought, and flicking cigarette into the river, he rose from the back of the bench and hopped to the earth, wandering back up the hill to the park, and out through the darkness.

The city unfolded like a labyrinth around him, tunnels and mazes of rundown buildings and glistening spires. He meandered through the city, aimless and still smoking, oblivious to the stares that followed him, and examined him from head to foot. He was oblivious to this microcosm of the universe that was, more or less, all he knew. He could remember the farm, and the expanse of the fields sprouted with corn, beans, tomatoes and other vegetables, of the cows, he could remember it all, very vividly, but he also knew that those days were dead, that that life was a ghost lingering in the back of his mind and nowhere else.

His parents had moved them to the city when the rain dried up, when farming was impossible and the things they grew were being genetically engineered. It had been a sad day, which he would never forget. He lit another cigarette and turned down a street he’d never been down.

It was the summer, he was barely four, and the car was hot – they travelled along the interstate, and he watched his town disappear with a bag of cookies in one hand. Once the familiar landmarks began to disappear, he laid his head on the leather seat in the back, and would nap. He’d periodically take a bite of cookie and return to his dreamless nap. It was a long trip, at least for a four year old, and when they arrived to the big scary city, his mother nudged him awake with a smile. He went off to run around the house, while his parents began unloading the plethora of boxes and deposited them in their designated rooms.

Atticus kicked an empty box and heard someone scream – the big, scary city.

 

The high earthen ceiling of The Grotto shook, and somewhere amidst the buildings, Boidae heard someone howl in pain. He looked around and felt the pain of the colony, before continuing to follow Teiidae through the underground metropolis. The small, gnarled woman stopped every so often to greet people she saw, people she knew, and would introduce them to the grown Boidae, who they had not seen in twelve years.

He was still a boy when he and Jackdaw were sent to the Outer Rim – few recognised him as he followed Teiidae, towering over her; and on the same turn, he recognised no one at all, even those he had seen on a daily basis. They had grown up and old, some were hunchbacked and wizened when they had been tall and strapping; others were ghosts of their former selves altogether, but no one looked the same, to his memory.

They were making their way to the centre, to The Hierarchy, and to The Magus to give Jackdaw a proper burial.

They turned down a narrow corridor between a pair of shops and stepped into the shadows. The old woman grasped his hand and they continued past a gang of youths, little younger than Boidae, but looking worn and volatile. Their hair was long and straggly with a metal bin full of fire at the centre, their scarred hands over it and their heavy cloaks bundled around them. Boidae had ventured to the surface just once in his years along the Outer Rim, and in dark alleyways much like this he had seen the same thing. He thought on this for a moment and wondered how different they were, and if either could survive in the other’s environment.

He and Teiidae passed through them and stepped from the mouth of the corridor to find their selves on another clay street, one he did not remember. The old woman turned toward the centre and continued on, oblivious to whether or not Boidae was following, having released his hand upon stepping out amidst the flickering torchlight. They were away from the peddlers and their carts, amid the more solid storefronts of The Grotto.

“We’re almost there.

Almost.”

She said, taking deep strides along the street and diverting the other foot traffic.

 

§

 

A heavy breeze blow down the dark streets of the city and her long white coat snapped and furled around her legs. Her hair whipped in front of her eyes, and she began to wish that she had brought a band to tie it back with, but she kept on, her high boots pounding the sidewalk as she made her way toward one of her favourite haunts. She had a book slipped into the pocket of her coat, and her eyes kept surfacing to the stars above and left her to wonder if there were some species up on high to watch as she cycled through the evening. The breeze grew colder when she turned down a dark alleyway and cut through her coat, chilling her to the bone.

It all felt unseasonably cold, but with the ever-changing climate, little was consistent, especially with what it once had been. She could remember her childhood and how she would sit on the roof of the apartment building she now owned, sipping sodas with her girlfriends and laughing as they tanned in the summer sun. The weather then was perfect, as it should be at all the right times – the summers were dry, and there was always snow on Christmas. It was simple, it was quaint, and it was a child’s paradise of faerie tales. Kings and queens, and guillotines – off with their heads. She actually smiled as she turned into the small coffee shop and took a seat in the first corner booth, dark and hidden in the shadows, away from the prying eyes of the new clientele.

They were her people, people of power, and as she looked around at their faces, she found that she knew several of them on a professional level, but this was not their place. They had contaminated the nuance of the place, but she was still able to call it home with a cup of tea and whatever book she happened to be reading at the time. Her mind flickered back to her old girlfriends, to school age – these were not her people. Over-privileged white males masturbating their money for the girls half their age. She scoffed and nodded at her normal waitress; the nod meant ‘the same’ to the waitress, and she ducked behind the mahogany bar.

 

Atticus turned down a major thoroughfare of the city, and his feet carried him through the human debris of plastic bags and paper coffee cups, stained a dark colour on the inside from espresso or coffee that was too heavy. He nudged it with the toe of his boot and looked at the flashing sign mounted on the black pole that bellowed Don’t Walk in bright red letters, all caps. On the corner across stood a door at a jaunty angle from the street that read Cornerstone, with an old fashioned coffee cup as the period. It was cute, he thought, and somewhat amusing. He had a feeling that this coffee shop had dispensed those cheap paper cups that littered the gutter along this street, and he doubted that a single stoneware cup could be found in the place – except, maybe, for the tea drinkers.

His feet carried him across the street, ignoring the sign, but traffic at this time was sparse, and he doubted that cop would explode his flashing red and blue lights for taking a chance with his own life. He stepped through the door, and observed the booths and tables, the high walls lined with a dark stained wood, and saw something in the nearest corner, hidden in the shadows something that made him smile beyond the ambience of the place.

“Hullo.”

He said, approaching the booth, with a spring in his step and a faux beaming smile.

“What?”

Claudia said, annoyed and looking up from her book.

“Oh. Hello. What’re you doing here?”

“Don’t know, actually. I was just walking, and saw the place. Thought it looked interesting. And you? What are you – never mind.”

“Yeah, reading, drinking Chai.”

“Obviously.”

He laughed.

“Mind if I have a seat? The place is full up, which is odd, as it’s so late.”

“Yeah, it’s a twenty-four hour kind of place. But yeah, sit.”

She said, proffering the high-backed bench across from her and closing her book.

Atticus thought she looked annoyed at having to close her book, but nonetheless, he took the seat across from her and looked over his shoulder to the thick of the shop, a cloud of cigarette smoke hanging over the tables and the pair of waitresses. One made her way to the table a few minutes and he ordered a coffee, black with a little ice, then he smiled and pointed to the cup of tea, and said:

“I’d also like it in a real cup, not a paper one.”

The waitress smirked and nodded before returning to the bar and pouring him a steaming cup of coffee and filling a separate cup with ice.

“There you are, sir.”

“Thank you.”

 

As they neared the centre, Boidae’s eyes followed the architecture of the building, high and smooth, with a subtle texture, as though it had been made of sand. The flames of the torches licked the walls but did not scorch them, and as they approached the doors, Boidae shifted the shrouded body from his shoulder and into both arms, the limp frame folding itself into his body.

“Are you ready?”

Teiidae asked as she stopped at the revolving doors and turned to face him.

“I – think so.”

“It has to be done, Boidae. Let us go inside and up to The Magus and get this taken care of.”

Her voice was saddened as her eyes fell upon the lifeless form draped over his arms like a limp carpet.

“Yes.”

He agreed and hung his eyes, half to see Jackdaw in his shroud, half out of memoriam, and as they stepped into the revolving doors, a single tear rolled down his broad and once broken nose.

The lobby was busy and filled with people, flowing in and out through doors, and Boidae thought that it would be an impressive view as he passed through and broke the stream with Teiidae walking before him and Jackdaw in his arms.

The receptionist made to stop them, but as she saw the body in his arms she motioned them through the doors and pointed to the elevator. Deaths in The Grotto were rare, and all seemed to understand as he passed through their masses, that he would be sent directly to The Magus so that He could stand over the burial. The elevator is empty as they step inside and close the doors with a soft electronic ping.

 

Atticus shifted to the corner of the booth with a leg up on the seat; his eyes and mind were content as he watched the fluid movements of Claudia as she sipped at her tea. He followed the brim of his coffee cup with the tip of his finger and his eyes moved around the room, the happy couples and the people of power, he watched and wondered what they were doing here so late, and then it dawned on him like a deep religious revelation. The couples were obvious, they were out for a late night, and the others, those people of inscrutable power; they were with clientele, or at the very least, on their way home from one of the decadent nightclubs.

He shook his head and returned to the conversation.

“What? Oh yeah. So, how was your sleep?”

“It was fine, had a bit of a messed up dream, but whatever. It was sleep. What’ve you been doing today?”

Atticus was taken aback, this was the most expansive he had ever seen Claudia, the most personable and human.

“I don’t know, really. Went down to the park, to the river, and just sat there and smoked. You know, there are a lot of stars out there.”

He said it without really knowing why. They all knew there were a lot of stars in the sky, but for some reason he felt the need to state the obvious. What confused him more was the thoughtful expression and a nod of consent.

“There sure are, you know. It’s hard to believe that – well, that, we could even fathom being alone in the universe.”

“Hey, Claudia?”

“What?”

“Are we going to talk abo–?”

“No, Atticus, but I do thank you for retrieving the parcel.”

Atticus was put so far off guard he lit the filter end of his cigarette and spat tobacco onto the table, bewildered. He shook his head, confused, and finished his coffee with an eye to the waitress who brought the carafe to their table.

“Something’s wrong…”

Atticus said as he lit the next cigarette in the normal fashion and eyed Claudia in a disorienting moment.